


The Houseplant's Lament

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack, Deliberate Badfic, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, One Shot, Religious Fanaticism, Sentient Houseplants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 12:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: Petunia, a Houseplant, has had just about enough of stupid fluffy angels.





	The Houseplant's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Badfic Idol 2019 at [Confabulation](http://confabcon.com) and decided that it needed to be preserved in its dubious glory. :D There's art!

"Not in front of the blessed plants!" Petunia hears their master protest. They are, in fact, not a petunia at all, but a philodendron. The name is ironic.

"Whyever not?" the other one asks. The two of them stumble into Petunia's view, and they can see that Crowley's companion—Aziraphale, they recall, curling up their leaves slightly—has his hands all over their master. Petunia is definitely not jealous of him, even though Crowley somehow manages to prize him above all of plantkind. Aziraphale doesn't even have nice leaves.

Still, one has to respect someone who's never been threatened with The Disposal. Even Petunia can't claim that honor, shamefully enough.

"_You_ know," Crowley says, followed by a series of distasteful wet sounds. "I talked to them too much. Now they have _ideas_ about being sentient and all."

Well, how rude, and after all the photosynthesizing they've all done in his name, too. For their part, Petunia was perfectly aware of themself before being chosen by Crowley. They can't say the same for some of their brethren, but they're sure the others do their best.

"Hmmm," Aziraphale says. He finally releases Crowley, only to come far too close to Petunia and have the audacity to touch their leaves. Petunia thinks very hard about growing teeth to bite him with, to no avail.

"You do a wonderful job with them, dear," Aziraphale pronounces. "If you wanted to start keeping some of them at the bookshop, I wouldn't be opposed, you know."

Petunia is absolutely not, under any circumstances, going to live in a dusty bookshop, and they shake their leaves in protest. A couple of them manage to swat Aziraphale, which, thankfully, makes him pull his hand back. "Well, perhaps not," he amends. "You did warn me."

"Yeah, that one's kind of mean, sorry." Crowley swoops back into view and pats Petunia, and they arch into his hand. _His_ touch is like the sweetest ecstasy, like the water he always mists over them just when they need it the most.

Petunia doesn't fear Crowley like some of the lesser plants do if they know what's good for them. No, they _love_ him—he makes them want to grow better, to be a better plant, to be the _best_.

Crowley hums in approval and gives Petunia a final, distracted pat, and then the two of them leave Petunia with their thoughts. _Someday,_ they think, _I'll be top plant around here, and then they'll all be sorry. Even stupid handsy angels._

(Petunia is still not jealous. What's there to be jealous of? At least they can make their own chlorophyll.)


End file.
